In between the dreamer and the breath
by smokefillstheroom
Summary: Laying in the dark, she listens to his breathing as seconds slowly blend into minutes, but he does not move again.


An image of his hands appears in her head.

They had been covered in blood, droplets dripping down his fingers on the ground between his feet, little stains on his boots. Red smears all the way up to his underarms where veins were visible under darkened, scarred skin.

Their food supply was quickly coming to and end, the meat already gone. Now they partly rely on the things nature provided them with, Sansa seeking berries and Sandor hunting, though he had told her he was going to teach her too.

He had been gruff, asking if that was all she was going do she when she sat on the fallen tree trunk, watching him gut the rabbit with a look of disgust. She _had_ tried tearing her gaze away, really.

He had looked over at her, probably expecting a polite answer or an apology. When he saw her expression he laughed.

And after that he let her be.

(She had been occasionally poking the fire though, because she knew he would rather not, even if he never said so.)

It had reminded Sansa of the butcher back in Winterfell, a bald man who was a tall as he was wide and permanently had a red line of blood under his fingernails.

One of his hands is currently splayed across her ribs, fingertips grazing the underside of her right breast, his arm across her midriff.

She had woken with a start when she felt something warm and heavy pin her down to her bedroll.

But then she realized it wasn't an intruder or a wild animal. It was him.

_I could keep you safe._

Even though they slept side to side for a while now, this had never happened. He had woken her multiple times before though, moving around restlessly on his bedroll.

At first she had thought he was a light sleeper, but now she knew it was something else too. She had seen him jolt awake, breathing heavily, strands of hair sticking to his damp forehead.

Feeling his warm breath against her temple, she moves her head slightly to look at him and winces as she feels a sharp tug at her scalp. Apparently her hair had been caught underneath his body when he rolled onto his side.

Her eyes seem to have fully adjusted to the darkness and she can see him now, partly lying on her bedroll, face next to hers.

This close, she could smell him, blood and sweat overpowering an unfamiliar scent she could not quite decipher.

All in all rather foul, even though she knew he had bathed this morning but without soap there was only so much you could do, Sansa thought. And she supposed she didn't smell any better herself.

She could only make out a small portion of his face, where the moon filtered through the canopy of trees. The blueish light made his scars less distinguishable and for a moment she let her eyes roam over the uneven texture of the twisted flesh. She is used to it by now, but seeing it up close was different.

Her eyes move to his features: his ruined mouth was slightly ajar, a dark pit, and underneath the shadow of a heavy brow eyelids fluttered, but he does not wake up.

His solid weight is quickly becoming uncomfortable on her lithe frame. After weighting off her options, she draws in her breath and moves slightly, praying that he won't wake up.

Bracing her feet against the bedroll, she reaches two hands toward the dead weight of his arm.

Despite her efforts, she can feel him stir almost immediately.

Quickly she shuts her eyes and drops her hands, careful not to brush against his arm.

She tries to even out her breathing, making it appear if she had been sleeping.

For a moment she think he's still asleep after all, but then his fingers flex and he slowly withdraws his arm. His arm sliding against her is a strange sensation.

She feels him sit up and tries not to wince again as her hair snags under the movement of his body.

Something soft tickles her shoulder then, and she realizes it is his hair brushing against her as he leans closer. Perhaps he is checking if she is awake.

But then she feels him gently gather a handful of her hair, draping it over her shoulder, out of the way. His knuckles brush against her cheek as he does so and for a moment they linger there.

His hand is big and warm and she can feel short coarse hair prickle against her skin.

The warmth is pleasant, and she can't help but move her face toward him, leaning slightly into his touch.

He stiffens for a moment, and Sansa feels his breath ever so lightly ghost over her face.

He lets out a grunt before he abruptly rolls on his side, his back to her, closer than before. She can feel the heat radiating off his body.

Lying in between two bedrolls cannot be comfortable, she thinks, but he is probably used to much worse. (Or mayhaps he does not even feel the small dip and the hard ground underneath his giant body.)

Still, she shifts slightly, making more room for him.

Laying in the dark, she listens to his breathing as seconds slowly blend into minutes, but he does not move again.

(She waits just a little longer before she shifts again and closes the distance between them, seeking his warmth.)

The next morning when she awakes he is already up and sitting on the wooden trunk, scoffing down the last of his breakfast.

She takes her time; stretches her sore muscles, feels her neck pop, smooths down her skirts and then finally, she faces him.

"Slept well?" he asks with his mouth full of cheese, holding out their sack of food to her.

She stiffens slightly, apprehensively searching for a sign in his face that he is mocking her, that he _knows_, but sees none.

His hands are clean, she notices, or at least there's no trace of yesterday's blood.

Her mind unbiddenly wanders back to last night, the feel of his skin.

"Yes, I did. Thank you," she says while putting one arm in the sack and probing around for the bread.

Catching her off guard then, he reaches forward with one arm and grabs her around the waist, pulling her toward him. She stumbles between his legs, nearly dropping the bread and he tightens his grip.

He doesn't look at her. Instead he grabs her hair with his free hand and wraps it around his fist. Slowly, he strokes it with his thumb while he moves his hand, studying how the auburn strands catch the light.

She can practically feel his gaze burn a path from her hair, still in his fist, to her hands in front of her chest, travelling upward where he lets it rest somewhere near her left cheek.

She suddenly is aware of his thigh behind her and has the brief urge to rest her weight on it. But then she has to think of the women she saw so long ago in the Inn on the Kingsroad, splayed on the laps of men, their curvy bodies curling around them.

She can feel a heat spreading on her cheeks and clutches the bread tighter as she swallows. The whites of his eyes flash as he follows the movement and something seems to shift between them. It is fleeting, and Sansa does not know what it is or what it means and by the time he carefully untangles his hand, it is gone.

He lets go of her and rises; standing so close she can feel the rough fabric of his tunic brush against her knuckles. She has to crane her neck uncomfortably to look at his face and from her peripheral vision she can see his hands twitch at his side.

"I'm going to water the horse and you'd better be done packing when I return," is all he says.

Leaves rustle around him as he makes his way through the thick foliage of their hideout.

So Sansa sighs and sits on the now unoccupied trunk, nibbling on the bread. For a moment she closes her eyes and welcomes the cool breeze grazing her face.

(It only reminds her of another caress.)


End file.
